


Practice Is The Road To Perfect

by MarigoldVance



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (is it even mild? it isn't explicit), Archery, Injury, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Prompt Fill, WinterFRE2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22574245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldVance/pseuds/MarigoldVance
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple exercise. Kíli will never offer his help again.
Relationships: Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34
Collections: GatheringFiKi - Winter FRE 2020





	Practice Is The Road To Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt(s): 
> 
> " _10\. Fíli using a bow_ " 
> 
> **AND**
> 
> " _56\. “Easy,” he murmured. “You need to let me do this.”_ "

Fíli was as adept with a bow as Kíli was with a sword. Fíli knew his way around one better than most though not nearly as well as those who trained mercilessly to master the art. Which meant, in their culture – as displaced as it was – practiced archers were few and far between.

Dwarves were axemen, swordsmen, close-combat machines of endurance and fierceness. Archery in the north realm was dismissed by most, considered fine and well but an unnecessary use of one’s time and energy as there were more practical things to be learned.

When Erebor stood, polished and proud, archery was reserved almost exclusively for the lower-class dwarves. His uncle, Thorin, talented in many areas, was hopeless with a bow. A crossbow, perhaps, if his uncle could learn to wind the mechanisms quickly after each release. _Perhaps_.

Fíli winced, remembering the fate of one dwarf’s left buttock after Thorin tried to demonstrate to Kíli how _archery does not have close range technique_ (he’d fumbled with the limbs of the bow and _whoosh_ , not ten feet away the fletcher yowled, flailing, with an arrow stuck out his arse).

Thorin had jostled the bow into Kíli’s hands and had ordered every bystander to _do something about it_ before marching off under a cloud of chagrin.

Kíli had smirked triumphantly for days afterward.

Fíli had felt the gentle tug of an involuntary smile on his lips as he'd thought about his younger brother; so contrary and carefree, obnoxiously charming and determined to prove his worth and the worth of the weapon he chose to study and specialize in. Kíli succeeded where archery was concerned; the best dwarf in the north, outwitting anyone who dared mock him for it.

How to nock arrows, mark, draw, loose; Fíli was able to hit a moving target, seven times out of ten. Not well, mind, and not always in succession. Truthfully, not always, in general, but _he was able_. More than enough to adequately see him through battle if he was ever divested of his swords – throwing axes, war hammer, knives – and luck served him a bow.

As a lad, Fíli had risen to the challenge of every weapon he’d been made to handle (and, as the heir of the line of Durin, Fíli had been _encouraged_ to champion as many as were crafted). It came to him instinctually, every weapon an extension of him. Until, that was, it had been his turn in the Butts. Kíli had already been spending his hours there, honing his technique. Fíli had marched in, chin up and chest puffed out, oversure of himself when he saw how easily Kíli made archery look.

It hadn’t been easy, wasn’t easy at all, and Fíli had made a fool of himself trying to show Kíli _how it’s really done_.

Kíli, once more, had lofted a triumphant smirk around for days.

Still, between his gloating, Kíli had also whispered suggestions when their instructor wasn’t paying attention. He’d kicked Fíli’s legs apart when their instructor’s focus was on another student, shown Fíli the posture. He’d offered Fíli what advice he could outside of the Butts when neither had a bow handy. All while wiggling his brows and boasting his betterness, of course.

The bow took Fíli quite some time to handle easily though he was never able to handle it _effortlessly_ like Kíli.

Which was why Fíli was stunned breathless, color drained from his face, struggling to form words with a fat tongue and tight throat. Stood over his brother where he slumped against the foot of a tree, biting back howls of the pain Fíli could see he was bearing. Fíli's blood slithered coldly through him, silted with fear and panic. Kíli’s jaw was tight, the muscles beneath flexing as he ground his teeth, eyes pinched closed; his nostrils flared with every deep inhale he took through his nose and his lips pursed with every labored exhale.

It was supposed to have been a simple exercise. Fíli was out of practice, fingers and form suffered from years of neglecting the bow in favor of sharpening his skills with a sword. He’d matured into an expert bladesman. And that was excellent but, after hearing that his uncle intended to assemble dwarves for a _most-definitely-dangerous_ venture, Fíli knew he and Kíli would be expected to accompany him and, as such, Fíli wanted to be prepared for any threat they might encounter.

He’d suggested armor plates. Why didn’t Kíli listen when Fíli made sense!? Why had Fíli allowed his brother to convince him they weren’t needed!?

Kíli groaned, turned his head away from the shaft protruding from his shoulder, his fingers pressed around the entry point. Hearing Kíli’s pain, dry and gaspy, the daze of shock left him and Fíli spurred into action. He knelt beside Kíli and gently removed Kíli’s hand, mindful not to jostle Kíli in the process. Kíli gulped more air and whined quietly.

“Easy,” Fíli murmured as he examined what he could of Kíli’s shoulder, “You need to let me do this.”

Kíli nodded, a short jerk of his head.

Within seconds, Fíli knew what had to be done. There was no sense risking his brother’s life with infection when Fíli didn’t have the tools (nor training) to remove the arrowhead. He stepped over Kíli’s legs and to his other side, crouched slowly and positioned himself to take Kíli’s weight and lift him.

“We have to get you to Óin.” Fíli stressed, winding Kíli’s arm around his shoulders and hoisting them to their feet. Kíli shifted uncomfortably for a moment before he found his footing.

Kíli chuckled weakly, short huffs of air through his nose, and said, “I can’t believe you shot me.”

“I can’t believe it either.” Fíli admitted, heart bloated with guilt, as he banded an arm around Kíli’s waist, pulled Kíli’s hip against his own and maneuvered them carefully toward the direction of town. “I didn’t think my aim was that good.”

Staring up through thick, damp lashes, Kíli leveled Fíli with a deadpan look and declared flatly, “It isn’t.”

≈

A day or so later, laden with a sack of tonics and balms and a scribbling of instructions, Fíli brought Kíli home. It had been touch-and-go for awhile. Not for Kíli who had been left in the deft hands of their healer, but for Fíli who had had to explain to their mother why her youngest was being treated in the first place. She hadn’t cared for his justifying _it wasn’t entirely my fault_ and had smacked Fíli on the back of the head with a cooking spoon, forcing him to take refuge under the dining table.

Kíli was utterly doted on after Fíli ushered him through the door; served his favorite stew and sour bread, his hair brushed smooth in that way he liked it to be whenever he was sick – his scalp scraped blissfully as he fell into a doze. Their mother wrapped him in blankets and served him sweet tea after supper and glowered Fíli into submitting to Kíli’s every whim.

Thankfully, Kíli wasn’t cruel and didn’t take advantage, simply asked for Fíli’s company, the question in a touch of whispered fingers across Fíli’s wrist once Fíli was finished adjusting Kíli's pillows behind his back and settling him into bed.

“I forgot to put the balm on.” Kíli said in a sough, not wanting to disturb the comfortable quiet that had crept upon their home in the late hour. It made his voice sandy and light, sent shivers from Fíli’s brow to his chest where his heart began to thud. Fíli swallowed. Kíli’s soft tones effected him, made his vision sharpen and blur, made his mouth water and parch, contrary sensations bombarding him simultaneously.

Their mother was already sleeping soundly if the noise of her snores was any indication so, really, Kíli didn’t have to speak so low. But he did and Fíli could tell that Kíli did it deliberately.

Fíli nodded and reached over to Kíli’s desk, sifting through the mess to grab the balm Óin had prescribed and uncap it. Fíli licked his suddenly dry lips, turning his head to look at his brother, rasping, “I need you to take off your shirt.”

Kíli grinned, sly and flirtatious, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Fíli closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath, willing himself under control before he did something rash. He felt his cheeks warm; he knew he was blushing. Kíli had been saying things like that more and more in recent days. Insinuating himself into Fíli’s space, closer than was normal even for them; seared heavy looks into Fíli's skin, breezed touches loaded with _something_ wherever he could, wrists, chest, back, neck. It was becoming difficult for Fíli to ignore, to pretend was innocent and that Kíli was merely tactile. Those thoughts were unraveling to reveal the truth of Kíli's actions as Fíli closed the distance between Kíli's desk to his bed, positioning himself at Kíli's bedside. He lowered himself to the empty space Kíli made for Fíli by his waist.

Fíli watched Kíli remove his shirt, movements stiff and awkward. His gaze crawled the expanse of Kíli’s furry chest, stuttering a moan at the sight of pebbled dusky nipples, along the trail of dark hair to where it thickened above the waistband of Kíli's smallclothes. If Fíli were a weaker dwarf, he would have whimpered at the sight. Kíli's eyes found Fíli’s the instant his head was free, and it was only then that Fíli realized how intently he was staring. Kíli didn’t seem to mind, putting his weight on one hand to angle himself closer, offering his shoulder. With a flutter in his stomach, Fíli dipped his fingers into the balm and swept up a modest amount, and set the jar on the floor. Slowly, he brought his fingers to Kíli’s shoulder and smoothed the balm over the angry red edges of the wound, marveling as goosebumps erupted under his fingertips.

He heard Kíli’s sharp intake of breath and glanced up, eyes catching on Kíli’s parted lips. A sensation Fíli could never before admit to associating with his brother roiled low in his belly, tightening and loosening in turns. _Want_. Fíli’s tongue darted out, teeth followed, grazing over his bottom lip in response to the images that began to flash in his mind. All the things he wanted to _taste_.

Fíli’s hand stopped and his breath hitched, and he was close, so close, hovering a thread of distance away from Kíli’s face. He could feel the barely-there touch of Kíli’s mouth against his own, the skin scraping. Fíli’s hand was moving of its own volition, traveling up Kíli’s neck to his chin, Fíli’s thumb glancing across the rich pillow of Kíli’s lower lip, tugging slightly and releasing and echoing the motion with a harder touch until he dipped his thumb in and Kíli’s lips closed around the calloused end. Kíli’s tongue kneaded the swirls of Fíli’s fingerprint hotly and then he _sucked_ – once, twice, more; Kíli made a lewd noise in the back of his throat, the sound thrumming through Fíli’s thumb and into his core where he throbbed desperately for _more_. Kíli released Fíli’s thumb, teeth grazing and tongue tickling, with a wet suckling noise.

His lips were puffy and pink, glistening temptation at Fíli who lost whatever inhibitions he might have had and descended. The kiss was rough and wet and filled with _so much_ and _how had he never known it could be like this?_

Kíli whimpered and pushed forward, whipping his comforter away from his body before guiding Fíli on top of him, hands everywhere, leg spread in invitation. Fíli slotted himself between Kíli’s thighs, Kíli hooked his legs in a tight circle around Fíli’s waist, and, _fuck yes_ , Fíli felt the hard press of Kíli’s desire against the seam of his thigh and groin. He rolled hips forward, proving to Kíli he was just as lost and just as eager to go wherever this was leading to.

“Fee,” Kíli gasped, throwing his head back and exposing his throat. 

Resting his weight on his elbows on either side of Kíli’s head, Fíli took a moment to observe his brother, to be certain he was real, _there_ , and not some fantasy conjured by the strong fumes of the balm. Kíli was beautiful and already a little debauched, lips swollen and brow damp, eyes hooded and glowing amber. There was a fire in them that was more than the reflection of candlelight and it made Fíli moan. He dipped his head, nosing Kíli’s face to the side so he could access the tender skin of Kíli’s neck, dragging his partly opened mouth along Kíli’s pulse.

“Kíli,” He breathed, his hips moving in short, aborted thrusts. He didn’t want this to end too quickly for either of them but, Mahal, Fíli had never wanted anyone as feverishly and desperately as he wanted Kíli right then and he could only assume, with the hard shape of Kíli’s cock through the thin fabric of his smallclothes, that Kíli felt the same.

Fíli rose to search Kíli’s face for any sign that he wanted to stop, that perhaps whatever was happening between them was happening a little too fast. Fíli saw nothing except naked desire and flushed skin and impatience settling in the line of Kíli’s mouth.

“I suppose,” Fíli said, because he _had to_ say it, “That I should thank my poor archery skills, after all.”

Kíli went still, his eyebrows lowered dangerously. “Do you actually want to discuss _archery_ right now?” He squirmed, rubbing his cock in a long line against Fíli’s, voice tight with the effort it was taking to restrain himself, his shoulder still too tender to be too physical. “Get on with it or get out!”

Fíli snorted at Kíli’s frustration and did as he was told because, no. Fíli _did not_ want to discuss archery. He had his brother, pliant and messy and gorgeous beneath him, and Fíli wasn’t going to question how he’d managed that. And if he sent a silent _thank you_ to the god of bows and arrows with every hard thrust, he kept it to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> ... i'm _very slowly_ practicing my way up to smut. _**very**_ slowly ...


End file.
